


Night on the Train

by spacemutineer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemutineer/pseuds/spacemutineer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows the flavor of failure, but he never gets used to its taste.</p><p>A small character study in canon/Granada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night on the Train

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: extremely dark subject matter (violence against a child)

The rumble of the train comes in a low, thumping rhythm as it winds its way along the track toward the station. Outside the window, trees rush by two or three at a time in the forbidding darkness. Beyond them lies the moor, its amorphous hills standing bereft and empty.

The girl is dead. Holmes has no doubt about that. He knows he will find her strangled, most likely under the floorboards in the garden shed when they arrive at the estate. Her tiny, grey body will be hidden away there, lying forsaken and cold on the ground.

Outside, the half moon leaves a pale dusting of light on the still world below. The train continues on its set path, accompanied by the ever-present click of wheels over track. It counts out the time and distance on invisible fingers as men and machine travel onward toward their mutual destination.

Across from him, Watson has finally drifted asleep, his head balanced awkwardly against the side of the car. This case has taken its toll on the doctor in the sixty-seven hours since it first presented itself to them in the form of a man, a father, pleading for their assistance with a faltering voice and trembling shoulders. Watson had taken the man's hand and pledged they would do all in their power to find the young missing daughter. That was nearly three days ago.

Now Watson's eyes are ringed and dark. His hair is thoroughly disheveled from anxious fingers running through it time and again. The doctor's shirt hangs partly open at his throat without his tie to secure it. It was lost during the search yesterday, torn away from his neck and thrown in frustration into the yellow knee-high heath as the sun beat down upon them.

Does he know what awaits them ahead at the end of the line? Holmes hasn't told him of his deduction, but certainly Watson cannot be unaware of the likelihood of it. He has carried his aching shoulder lower and lower as the hours have counted onward. And sixty-seven of them have come and gone since the gentleman stood before them in their sitting room, clutching at his hat as if it were the only thread left binding him to this life.

Somehow though, thankfully, Watson has found a few spare moments of rest at last. Holmes tries to narrow his focus down to just the sound of his deep, even breathing, blocking out the steel music of the train that surrounds them. He is alive. He is still with him.

After all these years, all these cases, by some miracle they are still together. And when they find this poor destroyed child, Watson will still stand unwavering at Holmes' side, even though he knows it will cut the doctor to the bone. Perhaps he will send Watson away on an invented errand, some random task that will prevent him from witnessing the inevitable end to this case. Prevent him from rushing to her when Holmes pulls the girl's body out of the darkness. Prevent that horrible, stricken look in his eyes right before he slams them shut hard in an attempt to erase the world in front of them.

The train rolls on while the sun begins to subtly tint the eastern sky shades of plum and wine before its rise. Watson grunts softly in his slumber and readjusts his body in the seat. He must be in no minor amount of pain and surely has been for quite some time but the man has not mentioned it even once in these last long days and nights. Although their clues and leads have been few and far between, the good doctor has remained, as ever, resolute. But even he will be broken at the end of this. Who could not be?

There is one person capable of such a feat, of course. Indeed, it will be expected of him, and for good reason. His is a reputation well earned and maintained with care.

When Holmes pulls the body of this small guiltless child out of its makeshift tomb, he will do it with calm, steady hands. When he gives her over to the waiting constables with their quivering lips and glistening eyes, he will remain stoic and steadfast. A quick exchange with the inspector will lead to an easy arrest by the early afternoon of the monster at the center of this case, who will swing before the leaves begin falling for the autumn. And it will be over. In a few weeks time, at home in London even the doctor will recover as new cases come up and on they will go as they ever have.

That is not to say, however, that he will forget. Memory is not a choice and forgetting not an option. Holmes will remember every detail of this case, this girl, as he remembers the others, the images burned into his mind like a brand. Now there are five of them. Five lost cases. Five lost clients. Those who could not be saved even by the so-called Great Detective for one reason or another. Cases where he came too late or took too long. Cases where he underestimated risk or overestimated his ability to see, to think, to find.

And now there are five of them. Five stiff fingers on a cold, lifeless hand.

The train comes to a stop with a hiss of steam when it enters the station. Voices rise from the platform as an elderly railman barks chipper greetings at exiting passengers in the earliest seconds of the dawn. Watson shifts his weight again with a hushed whimper, only just now beginning to wake. After the first shards of sunlight break over the horizon, the detective takes a slow breath and lays his hand on his friend's knee.

"Watson, come now. It's time."


End file.
